


Black WidOUCH

by howldax



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Ice Cream, Probably inaccurate description of sparring, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howldax/pseuds/howldax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On most days Steve and Natasha spar in the gym at Stark Tower, on the communal floor that's open to all the Avengers but is barely used by any. It's become a fondly-executed routine, and it's only really something they do with each other. Neither of them reads too much into it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black WidOUCH

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherloki19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherloki19/gifts).



> I wrote this for sherloki because she was out running and cut her foot, and I said "Imagine Steve coming and carrying you to your bed" and then decided to write it but with Nat, so. I love these two so much, them together platonically, romantically or sexually is just awesome. Especially if Bucky or Clint is in there. God, I just ship everyone, this is a problem. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> (I'd also like to thank everyone who has left kudos or bookmarked my stuff, it makes me so happy every time AO3 emails me to tell me!)

On most days Steve and Natasha spar in the gym at Stark Tower, on the communal floor that's open to all the Avengers but is barely used by any. It's become a fondly-executed routine, and it's only really something they do with each other. Neither of them reads too much into it.

 

“You okay there, grandpa?” Natasha asks as she knocks Steve backwards with a punch to the jaw followed by a spinning kick to the solar plexus. “Did I break your new hip?”

 

He grins and retaliates with a series of fast, lethal punches that she wouldn't be able to avoid if not for the version of the supersoldier serum running through her blood, because no kind of training can make you quick enough to dodge Captain America's punches when there are that many in quick succession. “Feeling good, thanks, you?”

 

“Not too bad,” she says, blocking a kick to her stomach with her forearm and hooking the leg out from under him so he falls to one knee. She uses the new position to swing herself up so she's basically sat on his shoulders, thighs clenched around his neck. She leans down and pinches his cheek, grinning for a moment before he reaches back and grasps her sides in huge, warm hands and simultaneously bites her thigh so her grip automatically slackens, allowing him to pull her forwards over his head to slam onto the padded floor. He spins her so their bodies are the same way and then pins her down, his forearms in the crook of her elbows and his knees either side of hers. He quirks an eyebrow, a smile that's almost completely a smirk on his face.

 

“How you feelin' now?” he asks.

 

“You're pretty spry for an older man,” Natasha replies, feeling an equally impish smirk spreading across her face as she thrusts forcefully upwards, unbalancing him, which gives her the opportunity to knee him in the balls. She takes the opportunity.

 

“Damn!” Steve hisses through clenched teeth, and a second later their positions have effectively been reversed, her knees bracketing his and forearms immobilising his arms for now. If he wanted he could easily escape – those arms are ridiculously muscled, and Natasha has a healthy respect and admiration for those thighs – but for now he just lets himself be pinned. “Did you have to knee that hard?”

 

“Aw, baby,” Natasha croons, releasing one arm to stroke his face. “Did I hurt you?”

 

Steve sighs overdramatically. “You're mean to me,” he says, feigning sadness.

 

“That's why you love me,” Natasha says, patting his cheek and then bouncing up, holding out a hand to pull him up. He takes it and stands, stretching. His shirt rides up. “Do you buy shirts a size too small on purpose? Because there's no way that can be entirely accidental.”

 

Steve blushes a little. “It can help when negotiating sometimes,” he admits.

 

“By 'negotiating' do you mean 'when asking people at SHIELD for new stuff'?” Natasha asks knowingly, grabbing a towel and throwing it to Steve before taking one for herself.

 

“Maybe,” Steve says, ever the diplomat. “Done for today?”

 

“Yeah, I've got ice cream upstairs with my name on it. Literally, because whenever Clint comes to the tower he eats all the ice cream with no regard for other people, so I have to label it because he knows to fear me when there's frozen dairy involved.”

 

“That's where that went,” Steve says, sounding fondly exasperated. “I'm fine with sharing, but that was a four litre tub of really, really nice vanilla ice cream and he didn't even leave a spoonful.”

 

“Label your stuff as mine, he'll leave it alone,” Natasha advises him, walking across to the shower room. There's a sudden, sharp pain in her foot. “Ah!”

 

“What's wrong?” Steve asks from behind her, instinctively stepping forwards and slipping into a defensive stance.

 

“There's some glass on the floor, I think,” Natasha says, checking the underside of her foot for damage. There's a long cut seeping blood across the ball of her foot, and she grimaces. “Great.”

 

“I'll get the first aid kit,” Steve says. “Do you have your phone with you?”

 

“Yeah, it's under my hoodie,” Natasha says, picking the glass out and hobbling to the showers to sit on one of the benches in there. “Why?”

 

“I'll text Stark and tell him there's glass in here, he probably has a bot for glass-sweeping,” Steve says, coming into view with the phone in his hand and the first aid kit slung over his shoulder. He texts slowly, with a lot of focus, but looks pleased with himself when he gives it back, text sent. “Foot up, please.”

 

Natasha does so, ignoring the sting of an antiseptic wipe. _Natasha cur her foot on glass in sparring room please send a not down to clean it IP if possible_ , reads the text. A few moments later a reply pings back. 

 

_I'm assuming you aren't referring to yourself in the third person and haven't suddenly forgotten how to text accurately, so by my stunning, deductive logic this is Cap. I'll send a bot down rather than a not, they tend to be more efficient._

 

“What did he say?” Steve asks.

 

“He'll send a bot down,” Natasha says, choosing to omit the rest of the message. She watches as Steve carefully bandages her foot up – probably unnecessarily, but aw – and checks the bandages over, looking up at her when he's satisfied.  
  
“Better?”

 

“You have a magic touch,” Natasha says dryly. “Good thing we didn't spar for long, otherwise I'd have to take this back off to shower.” Half an hour of friendly sparring isn't enough to work up too much of a sweat – it's nothing a change of clothes can't handle. “Can you pass me my change?”

 

Steve passes over the yoga pants and grey tank top, changing into tan pants and a checked shirt as he usually does after a session. His wardrobe choices are unimaginative but not displeasing, and occasionally he switches it up with a tight white shirt that outlines his muscles and, well, tan pants. He likes tan pants. Natasha is slowly making him wear jeans more and more often, because going undercover as fiancées was worth it for the modern, hipster-esque gear and, obviously, the kiss. Doing that second part again might have to be worked up to more slowly though.

 

They change in friendly silence, and then Natasha stands to get the ice cream and retire to her room. “What are you doing?” Steve asks.

 

“Going to get some ice cream,” Natasha says, uncertain of his motives. He clears it up a moment later by literally sweeping her off her feet, carrying her bridal style through the sparring area to the door beyond. “What are _you_ doing?” 

 

“You're injured,” he says, like it's obvious. “I'm stopping you from putting unnecessary pressure on the wound.”

 

“Rogers, it barely even counts as an injury, this is ridiculous,” Natasha protests.

 

“This is how we did it in the forties,” Steve says, letting a little sadness and bemusement creep into his tone.

 

“That act doesn't work on me, you ass,” Natasha tells him firmly, and definitely isn't smiling. Steve shrugs, dropping the façade immediately.

 

“Worth a try. I'm carrying you up to the kitchen and then to your room, if you don't have any real objection.”

 

“But I don't look lethal in this position,” Natasha says, leaning her head against his chest in acceptance of the situation. “What if a stray SHIELD agent or Stark wanders past?”

 

“Then you'll make an appropriately threatening face and scare the heck out of them, and your reputation as a cold-hearted killer can remain intact,” Steve says reasonably.

 

“Fiiine,” Natasha says, and enjoys the ride. When they get to the kitchen she clambers round onto his back while he leans down for the ice cream, and stays there on the way to her room because it's comfortable and a good vantage point. He slots in the keycard and types in the code to her room on the touchpad, the door sliding open with a faint hiss.

 

“Staying for ice cream?” Natasha asks, after he has deposited her gently on her bed as per her instructions.

 

“I only got one spoon,” Steve says, seeming a little thrown by the offer. Natasha holds up a second spoon.

 

“I'm smooth,” she says in lieu of an actual explanation, and pulls the covers aside for him. They both snuggle in, ice cream between them, and Natasha tells JARVIS to put on a random film from her most watched list. Howl's Moving Castle is what comes on, and she hums appreciatively around a mouthful of stem ginger ice cream. Steve looks intrigued.

 

“This is one of the best films ever,” Natasha informs him seriously, “And Studio Ghibli is the best animator, forget Disney. Disney is good, but Studio Ghibli...” She eats a spoonful of ice cream and lets the sentence trail off into nothing, letting that get her point across.

 

Steve accepts this wordlessly, taking a scoop of ice cream and settling in to watch with Natasha's head resting lightly on his shoulder and his head resting lightly on hers. The lights dim for the movie, the screen is big enough for the experience to be semi-cinematic, and Natasha feels utterly content.

 


End file.
